Beneath Forbidden Ground (10 page)

“Okay,” Murtaugh said. “Give me the odometer reading, then let’s do it.”

For added accuracy, Scallion zeroed-out the tripmeter.

From the oil change shop, Scallion made two turns, arriving within minutes at the site of the former insurance agency where Laura French had worked. It was now a public assistance office, the agency having folded a few years earlier. From there it was a short distance to the entrance ramp leading up to U. S. Highway 290, the expressway leading away from the city. The detectives settled in for the twenty minute drive on the busy highway.

Riding in silence for a few minutes, it was Murtaugh who broke the ice. “Say, Pete. Something’s been bothering me about this. Why didn’t the staffing company wonder why those girls never checked back in with them?”

“I asked the manager about that. Her answer was that while most of their applicants are contract employees, meaning they loan them out, some are just looking for help in finding a job. Since she wasn’t with the company at the time, she could only guess that was the situation with our four. In other words, after finding them a position, their part was done. The lady who was manager then most likely would never recall those girls out of the thousands she worked with.”

“Okay, I can buy that. But why in the hell did these four not tell anybody where they were going, or why?”

“I don’t know the answer for French and Thomas, but the Crews girl had no apparent contact with anyone other than the Luna boy toward the end. And Freda Juarez must’ve feared that telling co-workers about a second job would’ve affected her standing at the restaurant. They’re notorious about replacing employees who explore outside work, thinking they’ll slack off.”

Murtaugh mulled his partner’s points. “I’ll have to ask Mrs. Thomas and the Frenchs’ about it when I talk to them next, not that it matters much now,” he said.

Following another lull, the older man said, “Say, how’s your ex-partner doing? I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“Ross? He’ll be fine. May have to sit side-saddle for awhile. I forgot to mention, I stopped by to see him last Thursday afternoon. He’s whining, but he’ll be okay.” Thinking about Wendell brought a smile to Scallion’s face.

“Shot in the ass, and by his own partner. That’s a hell-of-a-thing.”

The suggested exit off of 290 was finally reached. Taking the ramp, then turning left under the overpass, putting them on a southwestern path, Scallion read the odometer, gave the reading to Murtaugh, then asked, “How’re we doing mile-wise?”

Murtaugh jotted down the number, then subtracted. “Just rolled over twenty-eight.”

They followed the road for a few miles, then took a right, traveling a few more, then took a final left, until they approached the entrance to Cypress Bridge Acres. Scallion eased the car to a stop in front of the stone gate, surrounded by well-manicured ground-cover, azaleas and pampas grass. A stucco wall ran beside the road, concealing the homes behind.

“How far in do you suppose she went?” Murtaugh asked, craning to look down the curved drive.

“Good question. Since there was probably not much here at the time, I’m guessing just a short distance back.”

They decided to go as far as a small circle with a fountain in its center roughly a hundred feet in, complete one revolution around the circle, then return to the highway. Stopping in mid-circle, they took a moment to admire some of the homes.

“Christ,” Murtaugh said. “You couldn’t touch one of these for less than three hundred grand. And that lake adds a nice touch. Be quite a retirement place, if you could afford it.” He was admiring a lake roughly fifty feet beyond the fountain.

“Too far from the deep water for me,” Scallion said. But he did have to admit to himself, it
was
impressive. How could this scene have been the setting for the tragic end of those four beautiful young women? He began to doubt his own theory.

Back at the entrance, Scallion gave another reading.

“Okay, that puts us at thirty-six,” his partner said.

Taking the same route back to 290, Scallion crossed under the overpass once more, then accelerated onto the ramp leading to the expressway, heading northwest to the small town of Waller, their final destination. Reaching the city limits in slightly over five minutes, they continued on to the Town and Country Hardware Store, located on the edge of the downtown area. It was in the roughly-paved parking lot of the store where Laura French’s Civic had been found.

Coming to a stop in the same general area of the lot where her car was located, Scallion put the car in park. Squinting to get an accurate reading, he read the number to Murtaugh, then found himself holding his breath.

Murtaugh hesitated for a second, then held his note pad up for his partner to see. “Forty-nine-point-two miles. That’s pretty damn close. I think we got us a winner. The two-tenths could easily be explained by our assumptions at how far in to the development she went.”

“Right.” Scallion felt a rush again, knowing they had part of the answer to the puzzle. The car had to have come directly here from the development; any other routes would’ve added too many miles. He looked back down the highway, in the direction from which they had come. “There’s no doubt in my mind, Denny. Somebody killed Laura French, and probably the others too, at that development, then drove their vehicles here and the other spots.”

“Makes you wonder again how many folks were involved.”

Murtaugh referred to a conclusion reached early on in the investigation. Since it was impossible for one person to drive two vehicles at the same time, at least two or more were required—one to drive the women’s cars, and a follower. But were they all driven away at once, meaning
eight
people were involved? Or had it been consecutive trips, needing only two. The cold case detectives were convinced it was the latter. Experience had taught them if several accomplices were involved, the chances were too good at least one would have let something slip over time.

“You’re right, partner,” Scallion agreed, while his mind started piecing together possibilities. “It means we’ve got a long way to go in settling this. But, at least we’ve got a start.” He put the car in drive, beginning the drive back into the mammoth city.

10

Tuesday morning dawned brighter than the day before. Torrents from Monday had washed away most of the spring pollen, which would no doubt return with a vengeance in a few days, along with the heat. Over coffee and a lite breakfast on their small brick patio, Pete and Marti Scallion tried to enjoy relatively cool temperatures before the humidity of southeast Texas moved in later in the day. He could tell she was putting up a good front, blocking out the procedure facing her on Wednesday morning. He kept a close eye trained on her.

Parting ways with Murtaugh Monday afternoon after returning from Waller, he explained his days off to be with his wife would begin today. The older detective said he would use his time digging into Kritz’s company, taking a close look at the man himself. Since he had a history with the guy, he was anxious to be brought up-to-date. “Hope things go well with the wife,” he had offered.

Squinting into the low morning sun, Pete also reviewed in his mind the results of the previous day’s breakthroughs. Proving what had happened ten years ago still presented a challenge, but at least there was something to build on.

As he normally did, he had spent time Monday evening relating to Marti his interviews with Newell and Luna, the visit to Staff Finders, and the mileage test. She was always interested in his cases, and having someone to listen was a plus for him. In this case, he also hoped describing his day would take her mind off other things.

“Say, honey,” he said, as they carried dishes inside, “What would you say to a road trip today? The kids won’t arrive until later; we should be back in time.”

Marti looked up curiously. “Oh? Where to?” Before he could answer, she had it figured out, able to read his thoughts; plus the way he mentioned it so casually was a tipoff. The olive skin around her eyes crinkled as she replied. “Let me guess. The place you and Denny went yesterday? What was it—Cypress something?”

“Yeah. Cypress Bridge Acres. You always seem to enjoy drooling over big houses. It’s quite a layout.”

“And while we’re at it, we’ll case the joint. Right?”

He couldn’t resist a chuckle. “I can’t think of a better partner. Can’t deny I’d like to get a better feel for the surroundings,” he added, choking off his laughter. “We’ll stop on the way back and pick up shrimp for a boil tonight.”             

“Better do it early. Remember, no food for me after 6:00 tonight.”

Two hours later, they were on the road, with Pete driving Marti’s Ford Explorer. This was off-the-clock, unofficial business, so the Harris County-issued vehicle stayed behind. The impression of an ordinary couple out house-hunting might make snooping easier to pull off. Working their way up to the Sam Houston Parkway, the massive toll road completely encircling Houston, they headed west, circling half the enormous city. Using Marti’s E-Z Tag to negotiate several toll booths, they finally exited on 290. From there, Pete duplicated the route from the day before. Nearly a full hour was required to reach the final destination.

“You were right,” Marti said as Pete drove through the gates of Cypress Bridge Acres. “Very nice. Very nice indeed.”

He gave her a knowing grin. “Just don’t get any ideas.”

Parking in front of a sales office he had spotted Monday afternoon, they stepped from the small s. u. v, taking a minute to admire the nearby homes. They then went inside under the premise of collecting brochures on model homes, or anything else having to do with the development. The thought struck Pete how awkward it might be if Murtaugh happened to show up, doing his own investigation. But he saw that as a long shot. The man would do most of his work on the phone.

Fending off several attempts by a cheerful sales associate to engage them in conversation, they assured her they were just looking. Grabbing a handful of folders, they were making a hasty retreat when Pete spotted a notice pinned to a bulletin board near the front door. There was to be a homeowners association meeting the following week, on Wednesday night—7:00 p. m. Everyone was encouraged to attend; important business would be covered. He made a mental note of the meeting; for whatever reason, he wasn’t quite sure.

Back outside, Pete glanced back at the office. “Did you notice anything about that woman?” he asked.

Marti pursed her lips and cocked her head. “Like what?”

“Well, she was a little on the attractive side, wouldn’t you say?”

She gave him a playful jab into his ribs. “You checking out women now? And me about to go into the hospital?”

He grabbed her and held her in a gentle hug. He knew her dry humor, but the words had a certain sting to them. “Course not. Just had me thinking about those girls. They all fell into the same category. Could be they were sent out here to sell home sites.”

Marti nodded, looking back toward the office herself. “You could be right. Especially if a man was doing the hiring.”

Pete thought about that statement for a minute, then took her by the hand. “Let’s go check out that lake. It appears to be the focal point of this whole deal.”

Crossing the street, they walked along a meandering sidewalk stretching beside the water. The lake itself was larger than it appeared at first glance, occupying a prime parcel of land, right in the center of it all. A few ducks and geese lolled in the far end; turtles were sunning themselves on rocks and branches on the edge of the water, the building heat enticing them to bask. The surface of the lake was dark and still, a mirror reflecting the few clouds floating by.

The overall setting seemed bucolic, with lush green lawns fronting stately homes, all facing the lake from across the circling roadway. A few residents were in their yards, doing lite yard work; a young mother played with children in her front yard. All-in-all, a typical, upscale, taste of surburbia that was the norm in outlying areas of Houston.

They strolled a leisurely hundred feet or so, then turned to retrace their steps. After only a few minutes, they came to a stop, standing and staring into the murky pool. Marti seemed to feel it first. She suddenly nestled closer to Pete, her body giving off the hint of a tremble. For a second, he took it to be a brief anticipation of her upcoming ordeal. But then he felt his own shiver, in spite of the growing temperatures. It was strange, unexplainable, yet undeniable. There was something sinister in the surroundings; he could sense it. He quickly concluded he was letting his suspicions about the case influence his sensations. But that wouldn’t apply to Marti; she was definitely on edge due to something all-together different.

“Pete, do you mind if we leave. There’s something about this place I don’t like.” She had her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, a familiar sign of discomfort.

He looked at her, trying to gauge her emotions, but she was staring into the water. He didn’t like seeing her like this. “You bet. I’ve seen enough anyway.”

“So, Pete. When are you and Mom coming to Austin? The fishing on Lake Travis’ll be good for another month or so, until the heat sets in.” Chris Bagwell threw down the last few drops of iced tea and melted ice cubes as he spoke. It was easing past six-thirty, and the boiled shrimp, spiced with packets of crab-boil, was history, devoured by Marti, Pete, and their two kids. The aroma of the Cajun seasoning still wafted through the den, helped along by the whirring ceiling fan. The two men stretched out, Pete in his recliner, Chris on the sofa.

“Sounds good. When your mom finishes her rounds of radiation, we’ll do it. I wanna make sure she’s strong enough to travel.”

“Sure. How many treatments did she say she would have?” Chris took a glance into the kitchen at Marti and his sister, having their own quiet conversation.

“Doctor says three, maybe four weeks,” Pete answered, eyeing the young man. He had the fair-skinned, brown haired markings of his biological father. Pete had never met the man, but Marti’s photos were proof. He stood a couple of inches shorter than the man who had raised him as his own, which Pete enjoyed harassing him about.